


CORMAC

by ass_sass_sin_o



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Major Spoilers, Non-Canon Relationship, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ass_sass_sin_o/pseuds/ass_sass_sin_o
Summary: “Yet now I find you six feet under, your existence only a memory for the few. A memory I’ll never forget.”CORMAC is a short, 3 piece fic that explores what happened in the years after AC: Rogue and AC: III.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. ONE

**CORMAC**

The decks of the Morrigan are empty. Not even Gist walks the uneven wood tonight, no. Only Shay remains on deck, watching as a gull soars overhead. Carried out on a warm breeze, the general chatter of New York’s streets fills the air around Shay, and for a moment, he loses himself in it, letting the gentle buzz of normalcy wash over him.

If only life was always like this. If only.

  
Sighing, Shay returns his thoughts to the reality of now. At dawn he will weigh anchor and sail out of the little dock by his home at Fort Arsenal, leaving the upkeep of the place in the capable hands of Haytham. The crimson sails of the Morrigan will propel him and the crew east, across the great chasm of the ocean, until the chalky coasts of England can be seen - there he will take up the last few leads as to the whereabouts of the Precursor Box.  
Oh, how he rues the day he first laid eyes on that box. Had he not followed Achilles orders to chase it...had he not searched for its purpose with Hope - had he not lost it to Liam he would not be in this position.

Nor would he have been forced to walk a path darker than that of the devil.

  
“Shay, you should be resting, you have a long journey ahead.” Haytham’s clipped, quiet voice comes at him from the dockside, and Shay turns to find the Templar Grandmaster standing there, as if he has been there for a while.  
“I can’t sleep.” his reply comes, as he nods for Haytham to step onboard.  
His boots are silent as they step onto the mottled deck, a remnant from his assassin upbringing.  
“The last time I crossed the ocean…” Shay pauses to swallow, not entirely sure if he wants to drag up those dead and buried memories, “The last time I crossed the ocean was my trip to Lisbon. And we both know how that ended.”  
“Ah.” comes Haytham’s reply, and Shay returns back to leaning against the railing of the upper deck, watching as a star shoots across the black sky.  
There’s a pause, and Shay knows Haytham is searching his calloused mind for the right words to say, as if simple words could dispel the cloud that hangs over him.  
“Shay- you returned troubled and lonesome, and the Assassins did little to support you in light of such a...a traumatic event. In fact they did the opposite of supporting you.” Haytham sniffs, perhaps remembering the dark times of his own, troubled childhood, “If your journey, god forbid, leads down a similar trail, I will be here for you.”  
Looking back out to the river beyond, Shay lets out a deep sigh, his breath misting in the night air before fading into the darkness. Out on the water, a lonesome ship meanders past, the lanterns on it’s deck casting golden shadows on the inky black water, the ebb and sway of which causes them to flicker back and forth, as if the light is truly dancing in the darkness.  
“Thank you, Master-”  
“Call me Haytham. I’ve told you this.” Haytham interrupts, raising one brow at Shay.  
“Fine then.” Shay shrugs, turning back to watch the ship sail past, “Thank you, Haytham, the Templars may be powerful, but you cannot stop a world ending. Nor can you stop the destruction of a mind.”

  
Overhead, a gull screeches as it soars between the masts of the Morrigan; its shrill cry interrupting Haytham’s thoughts for a second. Gripping the shoulder of Shay, he turns the taller man to face him, and then, he looks into those dark eyes of the Irishman  
“Shay, I did not mean the Order when I spoke. I meant me.” Haytham breathes, searching Shay’s eyes for a moment before leaning close.  
For a moment, their breaths mingle, turning to mist in the frigid air between them, and their heads tilt closer to each other, before Haytham takes a quick step back, then another. And another. Until his back is firmly pressed against the wheel of the ship.  
“I am sorry, Shay- I don’t know what came over me I-”  
“Shut up.” now it is Shay’s turn to interrupt, “Shut up and stop worrying about propriety for once. I’m about to leave for God knows how long - years maybe - and you don’t want to-”  
He stops himself before he says anymore, eyes boring into Haytham’s as the seconds stretch out for what feels like hours. In two large steps, he’s crossed the gap between them, stopping only when his chest presses against Haytham’s and he can smell the Grandmaster’s musky cologne.  
“Do you want to kiss me, Master Kenway?” Shay asks, his voice barely above a breath.  
“What would you do if I said yes?” he counters, barely able to hear his own words over the rush of blood in his ears.  
Without warning, Shay leans forward, pressing his lips against Haytham’s in a fleeting, faint kiss.  
“That.” he whispers, by way of answer.  
For this single moment, it feels to the two men as if the whole world has fallen away, and the distant streets of New York are but memories to be forgotten and made anew with new faces, new souls. Even the gentle bobbing of the Morrigan on the remnants of the ebbing tide still while they stand together, a hair’s breadth apart, without a single care for the world around them.  
“Do you want me to do it again?” Shay’s voice reaches his ears through the murk of his thoughts, and he finds himself leaning into the warmth, his very instincts screaming at him to return the kiss, to take the irishman in his arms and pepper him with a thousand kisses.  
But those instincts have his mind to contend with too.  
“Shay-” he tries, forcing that soft undertone out of his voice, “Shay we should not do this.”  
At the change in his voice, Shay takes a quick step back, a flash of red blooming on his cheeks as he looks away from the Grandmaster.  
“I’m sorry, Shay. But this cannot happen,” he apologises, accentuating his words with a wave of his arm in the gap between them.  
Shay is silent for a moment, not quite meeting the Grandmaster’s eye as he takes another step back.  
“You’re right.” he turns back to look out across the river, “You’re right.”  
Seeing as the ex-assassin has nothing more to say, Haytham releases a shaky breath, wondering for a moment if rejecting him was a bad thing. But - ah - what use would a lover be if they are to sail to the other end of the world by dawn, not to return in perhaps forever. Without another word, Haytham turns his back on Shay, heading back to the warm lights of Fort Arsenal and leaving the Irishman alone once more.  
To tell the truth, Shay doesn’t hear him leave. No, instead his mind is wholly focussed on holding back the tears that threaten to spill forth at the Grandmaster’s words.

-

The pale sun has barely peered over the horizon by the time Gist arrives, bringing with him the streaky, pink sky of dawn. It’s clear to him from the moment he steps on deck that Shay has been here all night.  
“Good morning, Cap’n,” he greets, his usual chipper tone somewhat diminished in the face of Shay’s silent mood, who only nods by way of greeting.  
Gist takes a moment to take his travel box down to the captain’s quarters, placing it next to Shay’s own, decorated box. While there, he spares a glance towards the bed in the far corner, it’s emerald coverlet untouched - confirming his suspicions that Shay has not slept.  
“Is the Grandmaster not coming to see us off?” he asks, making his way back out to the deck, where by now a few of the crew have begun to arrive.  
Cormac’s shoulders stiffen, if but for a fraction of a moment, but Gist still spots it: nothing gets past him.  
“He uh...he swung by last night to say goodbye. He has some stuff to attend to this morning down in Boston.”  
It’s a lie. One he made up as he spoke it. It’s a huge, sodding lie, but it’s not exactly like Shay can turn around and tell his best friend that he kissed Haytham last night and then cried when he was rejected, because that sounds amazingly heroic and sane, doesn’t it?  
It’s a lie, but Gist believes it.  
“Ah- that sounds like our Haytham, always off attending to something or another. I think I’ll miss seeing him around,” Gist says, coming up to stand by the wheel with Shay, “So...just a few more of the crew to arrive and we’ll be off.”  
“Yeah, and who knows when we’ll be back,” Shay muses, feeling some semblance of normalcy with Gist at his side.  
“Who knows indeed.” Gist replies, waving as the last of the crew joins them onboard, “It’s terrifying to think we’re sailing so far away, yet at the same time I’m mightily excited for where this will take us.”  
For the first time that day Shay lets out a laugh, albeit quiet and very faint. But it’s enough for Gist to know there isn’t something wrong with his friends. At the Captain’s signal, he calls for the crew to weigh anchor and raise the sails, and within minutes they are sailing down the river, heading towards that vast, open ocean and the continents beyond.


	2. TWO

_ Some years later... _

“Would you like to tell me why you wear the cross of the Templars?” A voice behind Shay speaks, his words clear over the general clatter of the harbour, “And you had better do it quick: I’ve no wish to gut you in full view of everyone.”

Although Shay isn’t entirely sure what he expects from the owner of the voice, he finds himself not at all surprised when he turns around to find a tall man, almost as tall as him, wearing white, hooded robes. His eyes fall to the Assassin insignia pinned onto the man’s robes, then rise up to his face, where he finds the memory of Haytham staring back at him.

“Is it not obvious?” Shay asks, watching as the man frowns at his words in an action so utterly like Haytham that for a moment Shay wonders if he’s dreaming.

“Ah. So you are the Traitor Achilles told me about.” the Assassin says, his words precise and well chosen.

“And you are the son of Haytham Kenway.” Shay replies, recalling the letters Haytham had sent him a few years ago, “But Achilles: how is the old man doing?”

“He’s dead.” Connor looks away for a second, and in that second Shay can see the weight of heartbreak resting on this man’s shoulders. He wonders, for a moment, if they could have been friends. In another time. In another life.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Shay breathes, saddened by the news of his old mentor’s death.

“Are you?” Connor asks, his voice cutting through the air like a blade through flesh.

A flicker of anger passes through Shay, his hands momentarily clenching into fists as he bites back a snide remark: angering the younger, stronger Assassin wouldn’t do him any good.

“I am.” Shay blinks, “I begged your father to spare his life, many years ago in the great white of the north. He was my mentor for many years, do not presume to tell me what I do and do not feel for him.”

Furrowing his brows, Connor remains stood stock still, arms folded across his chest . For a few minutes, they stand in silence, with Shay wondering whether he should simply barge past the assassin and continue on his merry way - but, ah, Connor can most likely tell him something no one else can.

“Templars are not welcome here, not anymore,” he states, and Shay can’t help but scoff a little. Were they ever welcome? 

“I’m not here on Templar business,” Shay turns his back on his ship, as the crew linger on deck, “I’m here to see his grave.”

There’s no confusion with Connor as to who Shay means:  _ Haytham _ .

Deep down, the Irishman silently wishes he had returned earlier, and had not spent an extra few years chasing errands for the Templars in europe. Perhaps then he could have been able to say goodbye to Gist one final time, before his call to return to the colonies took him straight to his grave. Perhaps he may also have steered Haytham away from his corrupted path, and perhaps the it may have been the Grandmaster greeting him today, instead of the son who killed him.

“I will take you there.” Connor turns away, pausing only to add: “But after, you must leave. There is no room for Templars here.”

Nodding, Shay lets out a deep sigh at the notion, and signals for his crew to remain on ship. As he follows Connor through the streets of New York, he can’t help but notice a change in the atmosphere since the last time he was here. Where once the city had fallen under the spell of prosperity and hopefulness, now it sinks beneath a haze of poverty and pain. Cormac was never blind, he knows just as much as the next man that poverty has always stained the city, yet now it seems more at the forefront of the city, infesting every street with its vile touch. Though, he supposes, a war against the British Empire can do that to a country.

“It’s not far out of the city, but we’ll need horses to get there. I wouldn’t want a man of your... age walking all that way,” Connor says quite nonchalantly as he takes a turn towards a hitching post, where two saddled horses paw at the cobbles.

Biting back a wince, Shay follows behind the assassin and takes the reins of one of the horses. His reflection in the shop window catches his eye, and for once Shay is able to see just how many grey hairs litter his head now, though, he must point out, he doesn’t look  _ too  _ bad for nearly fifty years old.

Still, he only  _ just  _ manages to avoid a grunt of effort as he hauls himself up onto the horse, a maneuver which Connor completes with graceful ease.

Their ride out of the city is silent, with neither man having any words to say to the other. Soon enough, however, the surroundings of soldiers and houses fades away into sparse forest as their path winds further and further uphill. There is a quick moment, where for one moment, Shay spies the glowing eyes of a wolf through the tick trunks, but then it’s gone, and the two men and their horses are left to ride in silence through the greenery.

Eventually, Connor comes to a stop, at the foot of the hill’s crest, and at the edge of the treeline.

“I will wait here with the horses, he is just at the top of the hill,” Connor says, not so much as looking at Shay, who dismounts his horse and hands over the reigns meekly. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he steps out from the shade the trees give, his eyes half shuttered against the stream of sunlight that falls from above. His feet feel as light as feathers on the fresh, spring grass, which bears no marking of any footsteps: he is the first to visit here in a long time.

A cooling breeze drifts by it, and the shadow of an eagle soaring high above flickers on his face. He pauses, if only for a moment, to watch those wide wings fade into the distance, it’s screeching cry reaching his ears a few seconds later.

The final few steps to reach the top are an agony to Shay, he does not know whether to expect a modest grave or… or something different.

“Master Kenway…” he hums without thinking, as he reaches the top to find a simple patch of land, headed at the top with a handmade cross - bearing the name Haytham Kenway.

“Haytham...I am sorry I wasn’t here at your end.” Shay drops to his knees before the cross, now wishing he had bought some flowers to lay there, “I know I could not have done anything, your fate was sealed, but- but I missed you, all those years I was away.”

To his own surprise, Shay has to swallow down the lump that grows in his throat as he talks. He’s not often one to cry, and he’s sure if the Grandmaster was here, he’d reprimand him for such an outward display of emotion. 

But Haytham Kenway is not here. And Haytham Kenway cannot say anything now.

“I cannot, I will not exact revenge for your death, not on your son.” Shay blinks, “It will not bring you back to me, it will not change your fate, and you still will have not met me at the docks today. It is all I can do to remain a Templar - if I am alive, the American Rite will not die.”

He’s not entirely sure who he is speaking to now, only that his words bring little comfort to himself.

A minute passes, and still he kneels there, not at all sure of what to do now. Until the grief of the past years hits him in a sudden, and painful moment.

“Haytham- I never forgot that kiss, never. I dreamt of the damned thing every night I was away from you… and when I finally found the box I was so, so overjoyed to finally be able to return here, to you,” he gushes, his thoughts tumbling out in a sudden burst, “Yet now I find you six feet under, your existence only a memory for the few. A memory I’ll never forget.”

His hand strays to his face, where it comes away wet with his own tears. Standing up in a swift and silent movement, Shay takes one step back from the grave, then another, wiping his tears as he goes.

He cannot sit here all day and weep over what might have been. There would be no point in that.

No, in a few quick strides he is back down the hill and swinging up onto his horse, not bothering to look at Connor as he steers it back down the path. Glaring, the younger man follows behind with a trot, his gaze burning into the back of Shay’s neck as they pass back down the winding path.

“You cannot stay here, in America.” Connor’s voice cuts through the wooded haze, and out of surprise, Shay pulls his horse to a stop.

“I have just sailed across the Atlantic, my men are tired from the journey, you cannot expect me to leave tonight.” Shay looks over his shoulder as Connorstops behind him, one hand angled, as if ready to trigger the hidden blade.

Narrowing, Connor’s dark eyes seem to peer directly into Shay’s soul, perhaps searching for some semblance of humanity there.

“Fine,” he says, simply, “I will give you until tomorrow night to leave. If you do not… I cannot promise your survival.”

Unsure of what to say, Shay merely turns back forward, spurring his horse once more into a trot. The next time he looks around, Connor is gone, leaving him to navigate the wooded path alone.


	3. THREE

Holding in a sigh, Shay watches the lanterns on the stern of his ship fade into the distance. The red sails of the Morrigan, sails that have guided him through many battles, blend in with the darkness of the evening sky, their fury illuminated by the sun sinking ever lower beneath the horizon.

It is the last time he will ever see that ship.

Connor may have told him he must leave, but there is nothing for him elsewhere, no. The young assassin will likely not be watching the shadows around the docks, instead he will be watching the red sails fade into obscurity, he’s no doubt sure that Shay can’t go anywhere without his ship.

To tell the truth, Shay himself is quite sure he can’t go without his ship. But...well, that merchant paid a hefty sum for the sloop, enough so that Shay should be able to set himself up somewhere nice, somewhere secret.

With the Morrigan a speck on the horizon, Shay turns his back on the wide ocean, the true extent of his loneliness only now hitting him.

With all active Templars here long gone, and his ship and crew now belonging to some cloth trader, Shay has only himself to look out for. In the past day, Shay has spent some time snooping around the city of New York, which has now become a stronghold for the assassins: he will find no help here.

It is a small mercy that his beloved Fort Arsenal was destroyed during the war: he is not sure how he would feel, seeing the Assassins parade around his once home.

The shadows of the New York streets beckon to him as he passes by, his thoughts turned on his memories of this place. He was a young man when he left, and the intervening years have left him older, perhaps even wiser - he’s smart enough to know that he is too old to take on the Assassin’s single handedly, even if he has done so before.

These things cannot be done alone, and nor can they be done without thoughts and plans, not to mention help from others.

And so, keeping to the shadows he once conquered, Shay Cormac makes his way out of the city he once called home, his plan of finding somewhere new to set up with the money he earned from selling his ship fresh in his mind.

And after that?

After that he will call in all the favours he can, and send as many letters as possible to the Templars he met back in europe. He may not be able to single handedly fight back at the Assassins, but there is nothing stopping him bringing in new Templars, ones who will help build a network to rival that of the Assassins.

Reaching the edge of the city, Shay pauses for a moment, to look across the pointed roofs one final time. For once, the city is silent. Not even the faint howl of a dog in the distance can penetrate the blanket of calm that has befell the city.

He supposes the residents are happy for the peace, another war has just ended, and all the sons and brothers and fathers have finally returned home. Should he feel bad for waging this secret war on the Assassins? Should he feel bad for bringing more violence to their homes?

Try as he may to avoid harming innocents, but there is no war without casualties.

He cannot stop what fate is written for him in the stars, and so he turns his back on the city once more, silently praying to lady luck for some guidance, before vanishing into the night.


End file.
